


It's (Not) Complicated

by Saziikins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Addict Sherlock, Drug Use, F/M, M/M, Murder, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 20:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7906243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They get Sherlock back from the aeroplane and into Baker Street, where Lestrade is already waiting. As Lestrade nurses Sherlock through his comedown from the drugs, John learns some things about the two of them that he never expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's (Not) Complicated

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing a fic from John's point of view... and it's positive. Everyone faints in shock. (I mean, it's dark, but it's positive!) This is set straight after the Special. Lots of drug references. I originally wrote the beginning of this from Lestrade's POV, but swapped it to John's, to get an outsider perspective, and I'm glad I did. This went in a very different direction to the soppy story I was planning. It got darker, but also more intriguing - especially to me, who was regularly surprised by what the boys were doing. Anyway. I hope you enjoy it.

With Sherlock babbling at 100 miles per hour, muttering things John could not keep up with no matter how he tried, it was no wonder he didn’t consider anyone else would be in the flat. But there was Lestrade, sat on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped in his lap. He looked up at them all with a guarded gaze, eyebrows drawn together. There was a tightness in his shoulders as he rose to his feet, eyes meeting John’s first. 

“Saw the telly, came straight here…” Lestrade's voice trailed off as he looked past John, past Mycroft, to where Sherlock stumbled in, still babbling, this time to Mary. Lestrade shot Mycroft a look. “Is he…?”

Mycroft stayed silent, only lifted his eyes to meet Lestrade’s. Something passed between them, John saw, some shared, deep understanding, though he couldn’t recall ever seeing them in the same room before. 

Lestrade shrugged his coat off, his expression shifting from cloaked anger to that of the solid, trustworthy policeman. John had seen him wear that look through the years. It was the same look he gave to victims’ families, something soft, warm, understanding. “Bed, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, hanging his coat over the back of the sofa.

“Can’t,” the man in question replied, stumbling over to his desk, pulling at the air around his neck, as though tugging off some invisible scarf. “There’s. Work, there’s so much work.”

“And then you’re gonna puke all over it, and then I’ll have to clean it up for you.” Lestrade made his way to Sherlock, holding both hands out as if to grab him any moment. “Bed, Sherlock. I’m not joking around here.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked around the room, first to John, then to Mycroft, then Mary, before falling back on Lestrade. He glared at him, opened his mouth to speak, then wobbled. Lestrade hands were already there to grip his arm and steady him. Sherlock continued to glare, and Lestrade met him with a challenging gaze. 

“So, what’s the plan?” John asked, as tension fell over the room. Lestrade would never hit Sherlock, John was sure of that, but he had never seen so much thunder in the man’s eyes before either. 

Silence reigned, until Mycroft turned on the kettle, as nonchalant as you like, and Lestrade gripped Sherlock’s shoulder even tighter. 

“Sherlock?” John prompted.

Sherlock bit his lip, and lifted his head. “I think…” he began. His eyes returned to Lestrade’s. “I think I need to go to bed.”

“But someone’s still out there,” John started. Sherlock going to bed was the last thing they all needed, even though he knew it was exactly what Sherlock should be doing. But since when did Sherlock ever do what he had to do? Since when did Sherlock put the needs of his body over a puzzle?

“Sherlock’s going to bed,” Lestrade announced, and John could tell there was no arguing with him. “Mycroft. Got a list?”

Mycroft retrieved his pocket notebook, holding it out to Lestrade. He skim-read the contents. “Jesus wept, Sherlock,” Lestrade muttered, wrapping his arm under Sherlock’s shoulders to keep him steady. “You’re going to kill yourself one of these days. Right, you’re going to bed.”

Sherlock appeared to lean against him, and let Lestrade guide him across the living room. John followed behind. 

“How many days have you been using?” Lestrade asked as he pulled the covers back. Sherlock sunk down onto the edge of the bed, head bowed, as Lestrade knelt down to take off his shoes.

“Two.”

“Well, that’s something at least. Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Slept?”

“No. Well. I suppose technically I was sleeping when I…”

Greg glanced up at him, midway through taking Sherlock’s sock off. “When you what?”

“He overdosed,” John answered, when it was clear Sherlock wasn’t going to admit the truth. Lestrade let out a whoosh of air, as though someone had just smacked him in the stomach. For a moment, he turned away from both John and Sherlock to face the wall. When he looked back at Sherlock, the policeman was back. 

“Hot or cold?” Lestrade asked.

“Cold.”

Lestrade rubbed his hands against Sherlock’s arms, over the top of his jacket, then pushed him down towards the bed. Sherlock went without a fuss, and let Lestrade pull the covers up over him, right up to his chin. “I’m going to send someone out for the shopping. Is there anything you need on top of the usuals?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, and John noticed the first etchings of pain in his brow. “No.”

Lestrade sighed. “John. Do me a favour, will you? Grab me a chair and a piece of paper and pen.”

John checked Sherlock over for a moment, looking for any signs he might need a hospital, before heading back to the living room. Mycroft was sipping a cup of tea as he stared out of the window. Mary managed a smile, hand resting on her belly, over their baby. “What’s happening?” she asked. 

“Lestrade wants a pen and paper.”

Mycroft ripped a sheet from his notebook and held it out without a word. John took it and carried his chair and the writing implements out to Lestrade. 

Lestrade took the chair from him without so much as a look, until he was seated at Sherlock’s side. He stuck his tongue out between his lips as he wrote, and held the list to John. “Get me that from the shops, will you?” he asked.

John read it. Painkillers, re-hydration sachets, chocolate, bananas and orange juice. “What is this?” he asked.

“It’s the stuff Sherlock’ll need in the next 24 hours. This is just a comedown, thank God for that, or that list would be three times the size.”

“How do you know?” John asked him.

“Because I know Sherlock and I know the drugs. Cocaine’s not the problem, it’s the rest of it. It starts with dizziness, we’ll soon move on to nausea and being sick, and then there’s the mood swings, the depression and the headaches. Like I said. It’s just a comedown. It’s not that bad. I’m just going to make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit.”

“I’ll get this for you,” John said, moving to the door. He looked over his shoulder, to where Lestrade leaned on the bed, head close to Sherlock’s. 

“This wasn’t what I had planned for my day off,” Lestrade told him. “Now you and me need to go through everything.”

Sherlock groaned. “You already got the list. What more do you need?”

“I need everything else. When was the last time?”

“You know when.”

“Promise?” Lestrade asked, his voice tight.

“Yes, Lestrade. I promise.”

“And this time, it was just two days?”

“I took it slowly the first day. Then the second day I took… a lot. I took a lot.”

“Enough to kill yourself.”

“Unintentionally.” John watched as Lestrade ran a hand over his face, before letting that hand drop to Sherlock’s hair, fingers stroking through the strands. “It’s only a comedown,” Sherlock murmured, eyes falling closed. 

“I know that.”

“You should go.”

Lestrade tutted and bent down, his lips close to Sherlock’s brow. “Never gonna happen,” he whispered. 

Swallowing, John tiptoed away. He left for the shops, buying the items Greg wanted, and some milk and teabags. When he returned, Mary was in deep conversation with Mycroft, though they trailed off when they saw John at the door.

John took the items to the bedroom. Sherlock was lying on his back, one hand on top of the covers. Two of his fingers covered Lestrade’s, as though his hand had fallen there and it would have been too much effort to move it. 

Lestrade shot John a thankful smile, and used his left hand, the hand not on the bed, to take the bag from him, even though it meant him reaching across his own body awkwardly to do so. 

“Do you need a hand?” John asked. 

Lestrade shook his head. “Do me a favour and bring in some glasses of water, will you? Better make them big glasses, I’m not sure when I’ll be able to move to get my own. And a cuppa. I’d do anything for a good brew. Not too much milk.”

“Sure,” John said, making for the door. “I’ll stay,” he added. “Help out.”

Lestrade hummed, but didn’t reply. John made a round of tea, and found a tray to carry the mugs and glasses on. 

Lestrade had laid out the shopping in a neat line on the bedside table. His and Sherlock’s hands were entwined on the bed. John stared down at them, trying to unravel the sight in his mind, but it was too strange, like encountering a Dodo in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. 

Lestrade looked up at met his eyes, then looked down at his and Sherlock’s joined hands. He shrugged one shoulder by way of an answer, and continued to watch Sherlock. 

“Been here before?” John asked, putting the tray down beside the bed and passing over a mug. Lestrade put it down on the floor beside him. 

“Yeah.”

“Shh,” Sherlock grumbled. 

“Talk later, yeah?” Lestrade whispered to John.

John put the water down for him and wandered back out. He sat on the sofa for a while, reaching over to Mary and holding her hand, running his thumb over her wedding ring. It was a familiar gesture, he thought, feeling her fingers against his. A friendly gesture, comforting. Like Lestrade was doing for Sherlock…

“Lestrade and Sherlock have known each other a long time,” John said to Mycroft’s back. 

“There’s history there, certainly,” Mycroft replied. 

“What kind of history?”

Mycroft turned to face him, raised his eyebrows and put his mug down on Sherlock’s desk. “The sort of history you’re watching now. I’d find him in a dosshouse, find his list, then take him to Lestrade.”

“Why not a hospital?”

“Do you think Sherlock would go to a hospital?”

“So how does Lestrade know so much about…?” John let his words hang in the air. How does Lestrade know so much about the drugs? About treating an addict? “Did you… train him?”

“It isn’t my story to tell.”

“But there’s a story?” Mary asked. 

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “If neither of them has ever mentioned it, then it is not for me to explain.”

Still, John wasn’t ready to let it go. “Are they… just friends?”

“They’d tell you that it’s complicated.” Mycroft sighed and headed for the door. “In truth, it’s not complicated at all.” He swept from the room before John had time to pose another question. He squeezed Mary’s hand, then looked back to Sherlock’s room. It was silent down the hall. 

“Should we go?” Mary asked him. 

John shrugged. “Lestrade’s got it sorted,” he said by way of an answer, but he wasn’t planning to leave any time soon. “Probably safer here right now. For you and the baby.”

Mary squeezed his hand, then reached for one of the books on Sherlock’s desk and flicked through the pages. John looked around the room, then to Sherlock’s suitcase, which was lying on the kitchen table. Mary wasn’t paying him any mind, so he went over and unzipped it. There were some papers inside, some maps and some co-ordinates. Clothes. A pair of hiking boots. He rifled through Sherlock’s belongings, but found nothing of interest. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for.

“John?” Mary asked. 

Frowning, John reached inside one of the suitcase pockets, and found an envelope there. The postage mark on the stamp showed it was dated seven years ago. He took out the card. It had hexagons on it, with a bee, and the words ‘[you’re the bee’s knees](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/10/ab/5a/10ab5a6a1a5d31313928edd210f36743.jpg)’. 

‘Lestrade’, it said inside, in pointy lettering, a pen running out on the last letter. ‘Eighteen months clean’. And then, in what John knew to be Sherlock’s handwriting, in a different pen: ‘Sherlock. Six months clean’.

John reached into the pocket again, pulling out a plastic container with powder inside. Knowing it was probably the drugs, he pocketed it to throw away. He slipped the envelope back inside. 

“John?” Mary asked. “Is everything okay?”

John bit his lip, downed the end of his lukewarm tea, then went to Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock was snoring quietly, hand still in Lestrade’s. Lestrade’s forehead was resting on the bed beside Sherlock’s head. He opened his eyes as soon as John entered and sat up.

“Do you need more tea?” John asked.

“No, I’ll need a piss if I have any more, and I can’t leave him yet. Cheers, though.”

“You know how to deal with him.”

Lestrade nodded, reaching out and brushing the backs of his fingers against Sherlock’s cheek, in a way that was more than friendly. John had to fight to keep the surprise off his face. “He never told you, did he?” Lestrade whispered, frowning. “Always assumed he… Dunno. Sherlock’s not good with secrets. I always assumed he told you everything.”

“He never said anything about you. I always thought you both.” John frowned. “I always thought you both were acquaintances and colleagues. ‘Til Sherlock told me about Moriarty and that you were one of his victims. Even then…”

“It’s complicated.”

“Mycroft says it’s not.”

Lestrade flashed him a dark look, then softened it. “Mycroft’s got a habit of interfering and saying it’s not complicated. Well, it is complicated.”

Is it though? John wondered, watching them. The way Sherlock was sleeping now, hand wrapped around Lestrade’s, indicated anything but. Sherlock wouldn’t let just anyone touch him like that. And he certainly wouldn’t have chosen to touch anyone that way, not casually, not easily. 

“I met Sherlock in Liverpool, five years before you met him,” Lestrade told him. “I was undercover, and… I’d been undercover for a while. It was fine at first, working undercover, we were catching dealers. Some small-time dealers, but when they got sent to jail, it felt like we were winning.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock whispered, waking up. 

Lestrade’s face softened, and he leaned forward, stroking Sherlock’s hair back off his forehead. “Pain?”

“No. Cold.” Sherlock reached for him. Lestrade glanced at John, seemed to struggle with his thoughts, then moved onto the bed, sitting up above the covers. He adjusted the pillows at his back, while Sherlock curled up to his side, an arm over his thighs. John looked away, feeling as though he had intruded on something intensely private. 

“Go back to sleep,” Lestrade whispered to Sherlock. 

“Greg…”

“It’s alright. Come on. Get comfy, that’s it.” John risked a look as Lestrade pulled the covers tighter around Sherlock. “Get your arm under the covers, you daft sod.”

Sherlock moved, but somehow seemed to press even closer to Lestrade’s side as he put his arm under the sheets. Lestrade stroked Sherlock’s hair, and stayed silent until his soft snores started again. A half smile formed on Lestrade’s face. “You wait an hour, and his snoring would wake the dead,” he whispered to John. “S’nice. Lets me know he’s alive.” 

“I’ll leave you to it,” John murmured.

“Don’t have to.”

“I need the bathroom.” John slipped from the room. He had never known how Sherlock’s life was before John met him. He hadn’t even given a thought about what Sherlock’s parents would be like until they were sat on the sofa in Baker Street. They had both focused on their adventures, and left their lives behind. They were so focused on each other, John wondered if he had even given a second-thought to his own life pre-Sherlock during those times. It was only when Sherlock ‘died’ that he recognised he had neglected his sister and his work, that he had built up an entire life which revolved purely around Sherlock. 

The grief from losing Sherlock hadn’t entirely eased, even when Mary changed his life. And even then, he hadn’t thought about anyone else’s grief. Even when Lestrade brought round a box of Sherlock’s belongings that the man had kept for two years… Frowning, thinking about that, John returned to the lounge. He found Mary asleep on the sofa, and pulled a blanket over her. Then he carried Sherlock’s chair to the bedroom. Lestrade didn’t seem surprised to see him return. 

“What happened in Liverpool?” John asked, starting on another cup of tea. 

“What did I say?” Lestrade asked. “We’d arrested some dealers?”

John nodded. “Yeah.”

“Right. Well, I thought we were winning. Then I realised the dealers were killing the people they thought had talked to the police. They were all dying of what looked like heroin overdoses, but it was murder, and there was nothing we could do about it.” Lestrade smiled wryly. “I say ‘I realised’, but it was Sherlock who told me.” The smile fell, and his eyes filled with some pained emotion. “You didn’t see him in those days, John. You don’t know.”

“I saw him today.”

“That’s nothing. That’s a two-day binge. You haven’t see him how I saw him. I can’t even describe it. I don’t really want to.”

“You don’t… don’t have to.”

Lestrade grimaced, as though the memories were there anyway, even if he couldn’t put words to them. “Skinny thing, struggling. Bloodied and bruised, and that was just his arms from the needles. And he told me the dealers were killing ‘em.”

“What happened?”

Lestrade sighed. “Nothing. We couldn’t get the evidence. Couldn’t do anything.”

John frowned. “So you…” He thought back to the card. “Did you take drugs?”

“Me?” Greg snorted a soft laugh. “Christ, no. Never done drugs a day in my life.”

“Oh. I thought…”

Lestrade blinked. “Why did you think that?”

“I found a card. It said… you were 18 months clean.”

Lestrade sighed. “I did some things. When I was undercover. I’m not proud of it. I couldn’t easily live with it. I didn’t do drugs, but I didn’t exactly make life easy for myself, or my wife. I didn’t have to get clean, not in the traditional sense.”

Lestrade swallowed, fingers returning to Sherlock’s hair. John stayed quiet, watching them both, comforted somewhat by seeing the softness in how Lestrade handled his best friend.

“The thing you have to realise…” Lestrade began again. “I liked being undercover. I liked the risk. I liked pretending to be somebody else for a bit. It was hard settling into a new police force, moving my wife to a new city, trying to be comfortable with it. Sherlock came with me. He hated Mycroft in those days, I don’t know why exactly. I don’t know what happened between them. But he had been trying to avoid Mycroft, so he ended up in the north. I brought him back down to London with me, and I can say it now, because it’s done, but I didn’t cope with it very well. Sherlock said I was in denial about… everything. All the stuff that had happened, all the stuff I saw.”

John made a noise to show he was still listening, though his eyes were fixed on Sherlock. He was still snoring softly, still curled up around Lestrade’s body. ‘Like he has been there before’, John thought.

“When I say I got myself clean, I mean I sorted myself out. My version of getting clean was no longer hating myself,” Lestrade explained. “Two weeks without hating myself. Six months without it. Eighteen months. And I had Sherlock. I mean…” He rolled his eyes. “It’s not how that sounds. I had Sherlock to focus on, and I helped him get clean so many times I lost count. We used to spend nights in whatever grubby shithole he was living in, and I’d get the supplies…” Lestrade gestured to the bedside table. “And we’d go through it, like a routine. I helped him. And he helped me. And he helped the Met. And we caught murderers together, and we gave up cigarettes together.”

“Sounds… helpful.”

“Then Baskerville happened.”

John blinked. “Baskerville?”

“I’d broken up with my wife. Remember Christmas?”

“Unfortunately. Yeah.”

“Yeah.” Greg huffed a resentful laugh. “So, Baskerville. Those fear drugs, remember? I don’t know about you, but they stayed in my system that night. All those memories I’d forgotten had got dragged up, swimming around in my head. Just… constant images. Sherlock came over to my room, and we sat up all night, doing all the things we used to do to take our minds off everything. Played cards, read books, placed bets on whether a coin would land on head or tails. We fell asleep together. A bit like this.” Lestrade gestured to Sherlock. “And we… kept doing that, ‘til he died.” Lestrade met John’s eyes. “Nothing more than that, just falling asleep together. It’s complicated.”

“It’s Sherlock. It’s always complicated.”

Lestrade glanced at John. “Do you… did you ever think you and Sherlock would…?”

“No.” John smiled. “No.”

“Right.” Lestrade seemed to relax a little at that. “I was allowed to see him the other night. ‘It may be the last time’, Mycroft told me. I got pretty close to punching him, and I’ve not hit a man since those days in Liverpool, but I was this close…” Lestrade held up his hand, thumb and index finger millimetres apart. “Anyway. I got see Sherlock and we sat together for a while… Then Sherlock sent me away. Told me he was bad for me, that he… that he didn’t… Didn’t feel…” Lestrade swallowed and rubbed his forehead. “And here I am anyway. I saw Moriarty on the telly, and my first thought, as always… Get to Sherlock.”

“Do you… Have feelings for him?”

Lestrade stared down at Sherlock. “How couldn’t I?” he asked, his voice quiet and a little lost. He looked up at John a few moments later. “I think I’m gonna sleep for a bit, d’you mind? I thought I wouldn’t see him again, I just need…”

John rose from his chair. “Of course,” he murmured. He took the empty mugs and left the room, leaving the door ajar, in case someone called for him. He and Mary watched the TV, the volume down low and subtitles on for the words they couldn’t quite catch. Mycroft returned, checked on the bedroom, and left again without a word.

Mary slept in John’s old bed while he tried to read. He heard Sherlock vomiting, heard Lestrade’s comforting words echo down the corridor. He thought he heard someone cry. He turned the kettle on so the sound of the boiling water blocked it out. 

He slept for a while on the sofa, and woke as the sun rose. He tiptoed to the bedroom, to where the door was still ajar. They were both under the covers, Sherlock’s head pillowed on Lestrade’s, chest, wrapped around one another as though that was where they belonged. 

Sherlock lifted his head, and his eyes met John’s. “He’s sleeping,” Sherlock whispered.

“You should sleep too,” John replied, his voice just as quiet.

Sherlock hummed, and he reached up and brushed the backs of his fingers against Lestrade’s jaw. 

“I think he loves you,” John murmured before he could think it through and keep the words inside. 

Sherlock frowned at John, then bit his lip and, somehow, found space to nestle closer to Lestrade. “I told him,” Sherlock murmured, closing his eyes again. “I told him, and he knows now.”

John smiled to himself, and closed the door. 

Later that afternoon, they all met up to discuss Moriarty. Sherlock was bundled up layers of clothes, and he was still shivering, but fighting through it all. Lestrade sat at his side. They were readying for something. Something they couldn’t foresee or plan for. Mrs Hudson made them dinner; chicken and potatoes and vegetables. 

They talked long into the night, Sherlock and Lestrade drifting closer and closer on the sofa, until Sherlock’s head rested on Lestrade’s shoulder, Lestrade’s hand on his knee. John met Lestrade’s eyes, saw a look of amazement on the man’s face. 

“They look good together,” Mary said, as she and John walked down the stairs together to go home. “Sherlock and Greg.”

John glanced back up the stairs, and heard the first note from Sherlock’s violin. “It’s complicated,” he said with a shrug.

To his surprise, his wife was grinning. “No, it’s not,” she said with a laugh.

John found himself smiling back. “No, you’re right,” he said. And he kissed her and touched her pregnant belly. “It’s not at all. I mean the Moriarty business is."

"But Sherlock and Greg..."

John looked back up the stairs again. They'll be okay, he thought. He smiled at Mary, and took her hand in his own and led her out to the taxi.

**Author's Note:**

> I think this story was in part inspired by this interview with the Guardian: https://www.theguardian.com/society/2016/aug/26/neil-woods-undercover-cop-who-abandoned-the-war-on-drugs


End file.
